


Even In Our Dreaming, We Kept Running Out Of Time

by JJ_Shinnick



Category: Original Work
Genre: Epistolary, Letter, Other, cannon genderfluid character, fanfic of original work, male/unspecified implied sex, not that you can really tell from reading this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 09:16:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5086303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJ_Shinnick/pseuds/JJ_Shinnick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A love letter, out of context, out of time.  The banished prince writes to someone who has been his mirror and his monster, and is slowly becoming something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even In Our Dreaming, We Kept Running Out Of Time

**Author's Note:**

> This is fanfiction written for one of my current original writing projects, because I need someplace to put all the ust that isn't happening in cannon yet. I feel it's also an interesting piece of work standing alone, which is why I'm posting it here. That mess in the tags upstairs is me trying to figure out the correct tags for a male/whatever they want to be today pairing in a sexual context, because shapeshifters make everyone's life that little bit more difficult. (Elliot, the recipient and subject of this letter, is canonically fluid in both gender and sex, changing shape to follow some internal shift that no one else is equipped to perceive. It's not actually very relevant for the purpose of this work, as Michael never explicitly refers to Elliot's gender or sex, but there's also no archive tag for it.)

          

Those eyes of yours. They haunt my dreams, and, if I am being honest, far too many of my waking hours. I have never seen a living creature with eyes like yours, the metallic silver of polished chrome. Your eyes are not the only part I think about, but they are where I start and end.  
          I think of your hands, too. Large, fine boned. More delicate than they have any right to be. I don’t think any part of you has any business being delicate, and I’m sure you would agree with me. Certainly no part of you has business being unscarred. Anyone who lives in the world like you do, like I am learning to, comes away with scars. Your hands don’t show it. I sometimes wish they would.  
          I think other things about your hands. I think about how they would feel. I think about the ways you might touch me, the ways that I would let you. Would you be gentle? Do you even understand the concept? I would love to show you, to trace the lines of you with reverence and heat. You have been too long in dark places, my love. It would thrill me to bare your body to the light.  
          Would you let me do that, I wonder? It isn’t like you to be shy, but I cannot help but think that might change, if we grew brave enough to lay hand upon each other. Perhaps not sunlight then, but starlight, in some green place the desert has forgotten. There, in a world foreign to this one, made gentle by the tender edges of the night. There, I could lay you down without a fear of morning and peel away the sweltering cloth you wear against the sun. There I could run my fingers over like tiny mountain springs, leave kisses in their wake that fall as gentle as a leaf upon the grass. There I could taste your vicious mouth, your cunning tongue. You could hold me captive with the power of your eyes, and draw me after you as the moon draws all too distant tides.  
          Yes, your eyes are the first thing I think of in the stolen waking hours before dawn. They are also the last, spilling over my own hand and reveling in the cry I cannot quite bite back. The waking world will always call me back, as waking must. Still I know that I will find myself again in that sweet darkness between our shared and aching dreams.  
          Yours,  
          Michael, no longer du Ariadne, no longer d’Lac but irredeemably,  
          Micah

**Author's Note:**

> Title from S.J. Tucker's Stolen Season.


End file.
